wickedness

It is a beautiful blue day outside. I got paid today, and the check was a bit more than usual since I'm no longer paying insurance on my ex. I woke up today with that feeling I was in the right place, doing the right thing. It helps that I'm settled into a place where I can be myself again.

Halloween is coming up. I went to the craft store and bought a couple of artificial crows, black chicken feathers over styrofoam and wire. I had a pair of them some years ago, but threw them out when I moved, and now I'm sorry I did. This new pair are smaller and not quite as imposing, but they'll do.

I was standing in line at the checkout with my crows, and the woman in front of me starts doing a little customer-return dance. She wants to return some scrapbooking crap, but the package has been opened.

"We don't take back opened packages," the clerk tells her.

"Well, the man who helped me said I could return it," the woman coos. She's too old to be using that kittenish voice. She's chunky and overdressed, with dyed dark hair and sunglasses. "I'm sure you remember. You sent him to help me. He was one of the managers."

"I'm sure he didn't say that," the clerk says. "That's against our policy. Do you know who it was?"

"Oh, I don't know his name," the customer simpers. "But he said I could return it, it was just yesterday..."

"Well, what did he look like?"

"Oh, I don't want to say," she says. "That wouldn't be nice of me."

At this point I snorted and dropped my purse and the crows on the counter. "Oh, come on, lady," I said out loud. She froze and gaped at me. "Does that work a lot?" I asked her.

"Well--I--! Give me that!" Her whole demeanor turned snarling in an instant and she grabbed her opened package of stickers. "Never mind, you little--" she reared her head, backing away, and I grinned at her, eyebrows cocked-- "bitch!"

I laughed. "Yeah, I'm the bitch."

"He had dark skin!" she said triumphantly, and flounced out the door.

I gave the clerk a bland look; she had on her best neutral-service expression. "I worked retail too long to listen to that crap," I said.

She handed me the receipt for my crows. "You have a good day, sweetheart."

I perched the crows above the entrance to my cubical at work, above the plate that says "Messinger of Doom."

Yes, I am downright dangerous when I'm in a good mood. I'm contemplating ways to built artificial skeletal arms out of wire and flour dough.